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The Pipe of Pan
The cool brook runs as clear and sweet
As ever water ran;
But not the pipe of Pan.
On yonder rocky mountain's sides
Do oreads dance and climb?
The dryad of old time?
Or is the world so changed to-day
That all the sylvan clan,
The witching pipe of Pan?
Come, sit on yonder stone and play
O Pan, thy pipe of reeds,
And selfish care recedes!
0, darkened sense! O, dense, deaf ear!
The world has placed its ban
Elizabeth Akers (1832–1911)
THE GOLDEN SILENCE
What though I sing no other song?
What though I speak no other word? Is silence shame? Is patience wrong?
At least one song of mine was heard:
One echo from the mountain air,
One ocean murmur, glad and free, One sign that nothing grand or fair
In all this world was lost to me.
I will not wake the sleeping lyre;
I will not strain the chords of thought; The sweetest fruit of all desire
Comes its own way, and comes unsought.
Though all the bards of earth were dead,
And all their music passed away, What Nature wishes should be said
She'll find the rightful voice to say!
Her heart is in the shimmering leaf,
The drifting cloud, the lonely sky, And all we know of bliss or grief
She speaks, in forms that cannot die.
The mountain peaks that shine afar,
The silent stars, the pathless sea,
William Winter (1836– DAWN AND DARK
SONG PH@BUS, arise, And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red: Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, That she thy càreer may with roses spread: The nightingales thy coming each where sing, Make an eternal Spring! Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; Spread forth thy golden hair In larger locks than thou wast wont before, And, emperor-like, decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night, Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
This is that happy morn,
A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
William Drummond (1585-1649]
HYMN OF APOLLO
The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie,
Curtained with star-inwoven tapestries,
eyes, Waken me when their Mother, the gray Dawn, Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone.
Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome,
I walk over the mountains and the waves, Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam;
My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves Are filled with my bright presence, and the air Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare.
The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill
Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day;
Fly me, and from the glory of my ray
I feed the clouds, the rainbows, and the flowers,
With their ethereal colors; the Moon's globe, And the pure stars in their eternal bowers,
Are cinctured with my power as with a robe; Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine, Are portions of one power, which is mine.
I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven;
Then with unwilling steps I wander down Into the clouds of the Atlantic even;
For grief that I depart they weep and frown: What look is more delightful than the smile With which I soothe them from the western isle?
I am the eye with which the Universe
Beholds itself, and knows itself divine;
All prophecy, all medicine, are mine,
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822]
From “The New Day”
The night was dark, though sometimes a faint star